


The Fit

by chainofclovers



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29247522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: She loves to control chaos (she wouldn’t live with Frankie Bergstein if she didn’t), but a jigsaw puzzle? It’s a pastime she associates with Christmas and children, but it’s the middle of March and she’s alone with Frankie. What’s the point?
Relationships: Frankie Bergstein/Grace Hanson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 51





	1. The Puzzle Emergency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollsome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/gifts).



> This is a two-part story for dollsome, who sent the tumblr prompts "Grace/Frankie, puzzle emergency" and "Grace/Frankie, compliment dance." We agreed that while it's not totally clear what these phrases mean, Frankie Bergstein probably gets it. So, here goes! I hope you enjoy, friend. :D

Grace has heard Frankie describe herself as a puzzle fiend on multiple occasions over the years, but until today they haven’t worked a puzzle together in all the time they’ve shared a home. She isn’t entirely sure what Frankie’s motivations are, but Frankie left to run errands and came back with a puzzle, and agreeing to hang around with the puzzle after dinner seems easier than asking too many questions.

The image on the puzzle box is one of Monet’s many impressions of water lilies in a tranquil pond. The lilies rest on a dreamy blue, and the image is perfectly recognizable even if Grace can’t be certain she’s ever seen this specific Monet before. Inside the box is more of the same, except the whole thing is broken into a thousand oddly-shaped pieces. A puzzle is supposed to be motivating—you gradually turn the chaos into something recognizable and satisfying—but Grace wishes she didn’t already know what the end result would look like. She loves to control chaos (she wouldn’t live with Frankie Bergstein if she didn’t), but a jigsaw puzzle? It’s a pastime she associates with Christmas and children, but it’s the middle of March and she’s alone with Frankie. What’s the point? 

*

“Would it have killed you to find one with some text?” Grace asks once it’s clear just how much space the puzzle will take up on the kitchen table. The image on the front of the box is less helpful than she’d assumed it would be. “Or maybe some recognizable lines?”

“This is full of lines,” Frankie says happily. “They might not be straight and bold and black, but they’re there. You just have to start feeling it.”

It takes nearly an hour just to fit all the edge pieces together.

*

By the third night, the puzzle’s in solid shape, but they aren’t in the clear just yet.

“Frankie,” Grace says. She points at the junction between two pieces Frankie’s just crammed together. “In what universe do these two pieces fit together?”

Frankie bends closer and frowns. “This one?” Still, she separates the pieces with a shrug. “You checking my work again?”

“Always.”

“I really thought they fit. That little daub of green’s the exact shade—”

“If they put up resistance, they don’t fit.” Grace has been focused on a large swath of blue at one of the lower corners, but now that she’s already paused, she lingers on Frankie’s failed pieces. The green really is a perfect match. She leans over to try them a different way and the pieces slide together.

“Nice,” Frankie murmurs. “And I was sort of right.”

*

The puzzle has been pretty fun—it’s a nice change-up from watching TV in the evenings, and the meaninglessness of the activity makes it a lot less stressful than working with Frankie on a new project for Vybrant—but it will end tonight, the fourth night. Grace is already thinking about picking out a new one next time she’s at the bookstore: an urban scene, all harsh lines and rectangular windows. A joke after the water lilies, but also something she wants to watch Frankie put together.

As they near the very end, Grace stands back from the table slightly, smiling at the sight of Frankie speeding up to put the last few pieces in their place.

“Grace,” Frankie murmurs. “Don’t miss it.”

“I won’t.”

“I want you to put in the last—” She stops. “Oh no. Look.”

There are two empty spots in the puzzle and only one remaining piece.

“No way,” Frankie says. 

“Okay, stay calm,” Grace says. She pulls the nearest chairs out from the table, peers at the floor. There’s nothing down there but a Goldfish cracker and a few strands of hair. “Hmm. It’s not under the puzzle, is it?”

Frankie takes her time running her hands over the entire surface. “Nope. All smooth.” 

“We did finish it, you know,” Grace says. “There’s only one spot where that piece could go.”

“But it’s missing,” Frankie says in a mournful tone. “That puzzle was factory sealed, and that piece is somewhere in this house.” 

“Maybe it’ll turn up.” It’s weak. “Good job,” she adds, and that’s even weaker. Congratulating a mature adult woman for fitting together 999 pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle makes her feel like an idiot. And they both know Frankie was probably responsible for three- or four-hundred of the pieces at most, though she was also responsible for making all the puzzle night tea, martinis, and popcorn.

Frankie smiles, an affable little grimace that doesn’t twinkle in her eyes. “You too,” she says. “I’m gonna turn in.” 

*

In the morning Grace and Frankie eat breakfast next to the nearly-completed puzzle. Frankie runs through an impressively packed schedule. First, she’ll take Faith to the absolutely wild three-and-under storytime at the library. (“We are _living_ for that storytime, Grace. _Liv-ving._ When you finally come with us, you won’t miss another week.”) When that’s done, she’ll drop Faith off at daycare and meet Sol for lunch. Lunch will be quick (“Thank God”) because in the early afternoon she needs to make an appearance at a baby shower for Brenda, the second-shift associate manager at the Mission Valley Del Taco. 

“How’d you swing that invite?” Grace asks in spite of how much she doesn’t care. “You never eat at the one in Mission Valley.”

Frankie waves a pointer finger in the air and flashes Grace a benevolent smile. “Ah, but until very recently Brenda was a shift leader at the one in Midway. She’s still adjusting to the promotion—it’ll be good for her to see a familiar face. And Grace, do _not_ let me leave the house this morning without gift-wrapping that signed copy of _Dragons Love Tacos_.” Her gaze goes fuzzy for a moment; she’s probably considering dragons and tacos and babies and how much they all love each other. “Hey,” she says. “What’s on your docket today?”

Grace gapes. “I’ll be home working.” 

“Classic.”

But when Frankie’s gone, Grace hardly manages to work at all. She keeps thinking about the puzzle, thinking about the missing piece, thinking about how disappointed Frankie looked when it became clear they wouldn’t be able to finish. Grace has spent all this time wondering why one would work a jigsaw puzzle at all, but it seems relatively obvious now—Frankie likes to fill her life. She likes activities. She likes going from point A to point B, and she likes checking out points C, D, and E along the way. She likes beautiful colors. She likes spending time with lots of different people. She likes spending time with Grace. Grace is better than Frankie at finding puzzle pieces that match each other, but Frankie’s the one who loves it. Frankie’s the fiend. 

With a start, Grace remembers a moment two nights before, when she leaned over to correct two of Frankie’s pieces. They were both hunched against the table for a moment, and Frankie wore almost impossibly billowy pants. Pants with deep pockets and too much fabric by half.

Grace rushes to the studio. In Frankie’s bathroom, she takes stock of the laundry hamper situation. There are a lot of clothes in the hamper, and plenty more that haven’t quite made it in. As she sifts through the clothes, a familiar scent rises: pot, lavender, faded perfume. It doesn’t take long to find the billowy pants. She shuts her eyes as she rifles through each pocket. She confirms all but one are empty, and when she reaches the last one she strikes gold. The missing piece must have fallen in without Frankie noticing. It was just one of many pieces at that point, nothing particularly special about it. Now it’s the key to victory.

When the puzzle piece is safely tucked into the pocket of Grace’s jeans, she lingers in the small room. She feels a little—not _guilty_ , exactly, though she’s just touched various underwear and undershirts and the bras Frankie hates wearing without Frankie knowing it, without her permission. She feels a little bit too close, like when something’s too much but you still want to stay. 

*

Frankie’s glowing when she gets home. She gives Grace an impulsive hug, like the world has filled her up and she’s got energy to burn. “Brenda’s gonna be _such_ a great mom,” she says, chin still hooked onto Grace’s shoulder. 

“That’s great.” Grace extricates herself from the hug just enough to reach into her pocket. She was going to wait until after dinner—or until Frankie brought it up again, whichever came first—to reveal the thousandth puzzle piece, but now it doesn’t feel possible to wait another second. “Frankie,” she says softly. “Look.” 

She holds the piece up in the air between them. Frankie gasps and doesn’t take it. “Well, holy shit,” she says with a grin.

They walk to the table together. “Go on,” Frankie says. “Put it in.” 

When Grace fits the final piece into the puzzle, it remains just a puzzle. Just a work of great art flattened and shrunk and broken up by the contours of the pieces, just a work of great art distorted by the glare from the overhead light. 

“Where’d you find the last piece?”

Grace cringes. “Your laundry. It was in the pocket of the pants you wore day before last.” The cringe deepens even though she’s pretty sure there’s nothing in the studio Frankie considers off-limits, and even though she’s certain Frankie would think nothing of rifling through Grace’s own stuff, and has in fact done so many times. “I was following a hunch.”

“Nice work,” Frankie says, and if it seems to Grace that she wants to say something more—well, it’s probably just her imagination. 


	2. The Compliment Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Life is a puzzle and right now as she walks slowly into the living room, taking care not to slosh coffee over the side of the mug, she is the last piece._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This rounds out my tumblr prompt story for Dollsome, who prompted "compliment dance" in addition to "puzzle emergency." Thank you for the prompt, and I hope you enjoy the second installment!

“Hurry up and get your coffee,” Frankie yells from the living room. “I’m about to press play!”

Grace laughs. She’s willing to hurry, but Frankie would never in a million years press play before they were both fully settled in front of the television.

A few weeks ago, Frankie came up with the morning movie idea—Movies in the Morning, as she calls it—because it seems like the only way she’ll stay awake for an entire movie _and_ remember its plot ever again. “TV at night is just fine,” Frankie explained when she pitched the first Movies in the Morning morning to Grace. “And so are movies I’ve seen a hundred times already. But an entire brand-new film? Two hours straight of new people and new information about their complicated lives?” And with that, a thing that was once completely normal became abnormal, and a thing that seemed a little weird became their Saturday morning ritual.

Before she gets her coffee, Grace kicks off the suede ankle boots she’d worn outside earlier to get the newspaper. She sets the boots down beneath the coat rack, where there’s just the right amount of floor space next to Frankie’s current favorite clogs. 

At the coffeemaker, there’s exactly enough hot coffee left to fill her mug. She pulls a small carton of whole milk out of the fridge and splashes a little in—a weekend indulgence. There’s a spoon waiting for her on the counter. 

When she opens the refrigerator door to put back the milk, she notices with a deeper awareness than usual how perfectly the small carton fits next to the half-gallon container of Frankie’s oat milk. Some version of those milk containers—nearly always those brands, nearly always those sizes—have stood side-by-side with only a few interruptions for years. There’s always a container of orange juice right behind Frankie’s carton, a bottle of wine behind hers, and both housemates are welcome to the contents of either. The harmony doesn’t end there. Each shelf is carefully arranged—a place for everything, and everything in its place. The meat sticks to itself, where it won’t contaminate the sanctity of the vegetables. When the door opens, the condiments barely rattle. There aren’t any spills to clean up because lately there haven’t been any spills at all.

The refrigerator utopia didn’t happen magically, Grace reminds herself as she slides the milk carton into its home and picks up her coffee mug. Back in 2017, she and Frankie had a huge fight about the then-disastrous refrigerator setup, and the aftermath included a series of planning conversations—at one low point Frankie threatened to bring Coyote in to moderate—that got them to where they are today.

She’s pretty sure she’s hyper-focused on all the perfect fits lately because the damn puzzle (which she glances at as she walks past the kitchen table) has mapped itself onto her brain. Frankie has promised to dismantle the puzzle this weekend, and Grace has ordered their next one online because the architecture wasn’t brutal enough on the cityscapes available at the store. In the meantime she keeps looking at the water lily puzzle, keeps thinking about the first piece down and the 999 times they found the next piece that fit. And it isn’t only the thousand pieces. It isn’t only the way the two different kinds of milk live in logical relation to the juice and wine, or the way her boots fit next to Frankie’s clogs. Earlier in the week, a package from Bookshop arrived containing two books Grace had wanted to read ever since listening to a new podcast on NPR. Turns out Frankie had listened to the same show, was intrigued by the same two books Grace found most interesting, and ordered them without a single conversation. Grace’s Thermos cracked recently, and Frankie surprised her with a new one that fits her car cup holder so well it seems like it ought to have been sold with the car. The other afternoon Grace walked into the studio to bring Frankie a little bowl of arugula salad, and instead of thanking her and going back to painting, Frankie stood with her mouth open and then asked “How did you know?”

Life with Frankie is a puzzle. As far as a metaphor goes, it’s pretty elementary, pretty embarrassing. But, Grace thinks, that doesn’t mean it isn’t accurate. Life is a puzzle and right now as she walks slowly into the living room, taking care not to slosh coffee over the side of the mug, she is the last piece. She’ll set her coffee on the available coaster, then fit herself in the available space on the couch. Frankie’s used pillows and blankets to turn the large sofa into a cozy two-seater. She’s perched in the middle, her arm running along the back of the couch to indicate exactly which negative space she’d like Grace to fill up.

“Fucking finally,” Frankie says when Grace sits down. She flashes a sunny smile and slides her arm down from the back of the couch to hug Grace’s shoulders. “Welcome to Movies in the Morning.”

⁂

On Monday morning, Grace accompanies Frankie and Faith to storytime at the library. The storytime area, which takes up about half of the children’s section, is a large circle recessed into the floor, its sides comprised of wide, carpeted steps. By the time they arrive, a couple dozen kids and their caregivers are already perched on the steps or milling around the lowest level. Grace’s knees ache just looking at it, but when they approach the edge of the first step Frankie lets go of Faith’s hand and sends her off with a shoulder squeeze to tumble down into the pit with the other kids. Then she leads Grace to two folding chairs set up near the outer edge and plops down in one. 

“What are you doing?” 

“No, no, it’s okay, these are for us,” Frankie says with confidence. She lowers her voice. “A few weeks ago like three people had to hoist me out of the pit. It wasn’t exactly the image I wanted to project in front of Faith and her library friends, so Maryann’s hooked me up with a chair ever since. I called this morning and told her you were joining us this week.”

Maryann—dyed red curls, hippie skirt, purple lipstick—is probably only a decade or so younger than they are, but she leaps right down to the lowest level and sits on the innermost step with a basket of books, puppets, and a triangle. She takes out the triangle first and dings a single note. The throng of three-and-unders falls quiet. Those who were standing or jumping or running sit, mostly without being reminded. 

“Welcome, everybody,” Maryann says. She surveys the crowd with a smile. 

She points at a little boy with a cast on his arm. “Teddy, welcome back. How’s the arm?” 

Teddy says something unintelligible but positive in response. 

“Lucia, thank you for bringing your friend with you. Who’s this?” 

A little girl holds a stuffed bunny up in the air. “Benji!” she shouts. 

Grace rolls her eyes, and Frankie slaps her lightly on the thigh with the back of her hand. 

Maryann scans the crowd again. Her eyes land on Faith, then cast up to Grace and Frankie in their folding chairs. “Faith, you’re here with Grandma Frankie, as always—and Frankie, this must be Grace! Welcome!” 

Grace startles and tries not to show it. A few of the parents look up and throw approving thumbs-up signs in Frankie’s direction. Frankie returns the gesture.

“Lots of familiar faces and lots of new friends, too,” Maryann singsongs. Grace has to hand it to her: Maryann’s ebullient, musical voice could be a lot more grating than it is. There’s something genuine about her. “What do you think, kids—should we start with the Compliment Dance?”

The crowd goes wild. The kids who are old enough to stand on their own leap to their feet. The babies are hoisted onto adults’ shoulders or cradled in adults’ arms. It seems like Maryann has created a big headache for herself considering she just got everybody to sit down, but she’s a professional, and it’s kind of fun to watch her work. Frankie pulls Grace to her feet, leaving no space for her to fade into the background as a silent observer. 

“All right, let’s show our new friends how it’s done!” And then, with her voice, a triangle, and a not inconsiderable amount of audience participation, Maryann makes the Compliment Dance happen. 

It’s basically the Hokey Pokey. Maryann wriggles all her limbs to encourage free movement, but out of old Hokey Pokey habits a lot of people primarily put their right foot in and out as Maryann sings: 

> “Don’t keep your kind thoughts in
> 
> Yell your kind thoughts out
> 
> Don’t keep your kind thoughts in
> 
> When you can yell ‘em all about
> 
> The Compliment Dance might turn somebody’s day around
> 
> That's what it's all about!”

As soon as the verse is over, Maryann shouts, “Great! Now turn to a friend and say something kind!”

The resulting kindnesses are the loudest thing Grace has ever heard in a library. In the pit, compliments are flying, but Grace picks out only Frankie’s voice above the din. Frankie turns to Grace, grabs one of her hands, and exclaims, “You’re so hot!” 

A powerful ding on the triangle snaps everybody out of the fever pitch. The crowd returns to their seats. Frankie lets go of Grace’s hand and glances at her nervously, as if trying to read her expression. 

Grace avoids looking at Frankie for the rest of storytime. When Maryann pulls a sock with googly-eyes and a professionally-stitched alligator puppet out of the basket, Grace turns her attention to Faith, telling herself she’s in the moment, telling herself she can’t look away from the delight Faith takes in the puppet show. She hardly registers the picture book Maryann reads aloud after the puppets are back in the basket. She retreats into her thoughts, hidden behind the warmth that won’t leave her face. 

It’s stupid to feel shocked by Frankie’s compliment. She and Frankie compliment each other all the time. They’re best friends; they flirt with each other in innocent and meaningless ways; they’re perfect pieces in a perfectly platonic puzzle. Sure, it would’ve been ideal for Frankie to avoid shouting “You’re so hot” in a room full of impressionable toddlers, but she’s certain Frankie meant for the compliment to empower her, not to make her feel weird.

She forces the blush out of her cheeks. She tells herself that if she’s going to feel weird about something, it should be her own regret: she was so taken aback by the unexpected Hokey Pokey rewrite that she didn’t come up with a compliment for Frankie. 

The car ride after storytime is quiet. Faith falls asleep in her carseat, and Grace and Frankie don’t say much. They’re nearly back at the daycare center when Frankie speaks. “I made you uncomfortable,” she says. Her hands carefully grip the wheel. Her eyes stay carefully trained on the road. “I’m sorry. It was the most genuine compliment that occurred to me at the time.”

Grace glances back to make sure Faith is still asleep. When Brianna and Mallory were little, she and Robert used to argue in front of them all the time. They’d thought the girls were too young to understand, but apparently they imprinted them with conflict. “We were at a storytime for _babies_.”

“They couldn’t hear us. We were back by the grandma chairs.”’

Grace chuckles. “It was pretty loud.” But she realizes then that this isn’t the conversation she wants to be having, the path she wants to travel. She thinks of all the thumbs-up signs, all the people at the library who knew her name. The extra grandma chair, ready and waiting. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course!” Frankie exclaims, no less enthusiastic for her attempt to stay hushed for Faith. “Look at you! Your eyes, your smile—you were totally smiling at that insane Compliment Dance song—the way you’re pulling off that sweater…” 

Grace shivers. “No, but did you _mean_ it?” 

She forces herself to watch Frankie’s expression. A slight smile pulls at the corners of Frankie’s mouth. She readjusts her grip on the steering wheel for the umpteenth time. “Yes,” she says simply. “I _meant_ it.” 

At the daycare center, Frankie takes care of waking Faith up and bringing her inside. Grace sits in the passenger seat and waits for her to come back. When Frankie emerges from the building, Grace feels a jolt of surprise even though Frankie’s return is the exact thing she’s been waiting for. In the last second before Frankie opens the car door, Grace forces herself to think of something that doesn’t happen—a kiss hello, as casual as if they’d kissed like that a thousand times. A kiss so casual it could fool her into thinking they could skip over all the discomfort, the sudden newness that feels like both a gift and a threat. 

Frankie sticks to her own side of the car. 

“It would be a big change,” Grace says as Frankie puts the car in reverse.

“Yes and no.”

⁂

That night, making dinner in the kitchen with Frankie, the air between them is still too quiet.

“I feel strange,” Grace admits. She stands at the island over a cutting board. Frankie turns away from the sink to listen. “I don’t like feeling awkward with you.”

Frankie nods. “I feel a little weird, too.” She smiles. “But—if the thing we’re talking about happens, I think it’s okay to feel a little weird. Remember when Robert and Sol stopped lawyering?” 

“Yeah.” 

“It took them awhile to figure out what that meant. To figure out who they were.”

Grace is about to point out that Robert and Sol’s non-linear decisions about retirement don’t at all resemble the question of whether she and Frankie want to make out with each other. And, assuming they do want to, if they actually will. Before she can find the words, Frankie continues.

“And if that example doesn’t work for you, um, you remember my friend Irene? She told me that when she transitioned, it was like a second puberty sometimes. All the physical changes, obviously, but also the really amazing feeling of finally getting to do stuff as the person she wanted to be.”

“Irene from your book club?”

“The very same.” 

Grace smirks. “Doesn’t she have a much younger girlfriend?”

“Oh yes. They seem very happy together.” 

“Things are so good the way they are,” Grace says, and doesn’t miss the sadness sparkling in Frankie’s eyes. 

“They are.” 

“But maybe—maybe if they weren’t so good, it wouldn’t even occur to us that things could change.” 

Frankie sets the head of lettuce she’s been rinsing directly into the sink. “Grace—”

“You’re the only person who’s made me like it when things change,” says Grace. “If I could go back in time and say that during the Compliment Dance, I would.” 

“Thank you for the lovely compliment,” Frankie says.

“You’re welcome.” 

Grace sets down her knife. She wants to walk closer to Frankie—to do what, exactly, she doesn’t know. But Frankie picks up the lettuce again. There are a lot of clean dishes on one side of her, a lot of unwashed vegetables on the other. She’s holding a wet head of lettuce in her hands. There isn’t an obvious place for Grace to stand, an obvious place for her to fit. She rushes toward Frankie anyway, and that decision is enough to go on, enough to make the next moment begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story, one of the dorkiest things I have ever written. I would love to hear what you think, including constructive criticism! :)


End file.
